


Feels Like Something, Maybe It Fits

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, High Sex, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Resurrected Tony Stark, Virgin Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-22 12:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Peter’s still not used to hearing that voice. Four months, and part of him thinks it’s a lie every time.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 82
Kudos: 708
Collections: Multifandom Tropefest 2019





	Feels Like Something, Maybe It Fits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pleurer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleurer/gifts).

> A treat for you. This is supposed to be some combination of your various touch starved, bonding over shared trauma, and first time freeforms. I’m not entirely sure blending them all together didn’t dilute each to the point you can barely tell what tropes I was going for, but hopefully the result is enjoyable nonetheless :D

“Peter Parker, smoking pot? I don’t believe my eyes.”

Peter’s heart jumps and his grip on the vape between his fingers tightens as a heavy thunk behind him announces Iron Man just landed on his deck. Mr. Stark must’ve already retracted the mask; his words are clear and sharp, not hidden behind a metallic overlay. Peter’s still not used to hearing that voice. Four months, and part of him thinks it’s a lie every time.

Well, maybe that’s because he hasn’t been allowed to hear it very often.

He takes a long drag, a little to steady himself, mostly to buy a few seconds to figure out how to react. He keeps his eyes fixed pointedly on the view, if you can call the scraggly jumble of a poorly kept backyard a “view.”

Mr. Stark chuckles, hand skimming Peter’s shoulder as he brushes past to settle into the chair next to him. Peter feels it down his spine. “Relax, kid, I’m not going to ground you. I’m just surprised.”

Peter manages a small smile to acknowledge the joke. He glances sideways. It’s funny, seeing Tony Stark in a bajillion dollar suit—the fancy person kind, not the superhero kind, that’s already dissolved away—squeezing into a narrow, rusted deck chair Peter salvaged off the side of the road when he moved in at the beginning of the year.

Seeing Tony Stark at all, though, that’s not funny. Peter’s not sure he has the word for it.

“I’m too old for anyone to ground,” he says, even though he’s pretty sure that if May put her mind to it, she’d find a way, even from New York. She’ll find a way from beyond the grave when he’s eighty, if she wants to. He extends the vape, still not looking at Tony directly. It’s kind of too much. “Besides, it’s legal in Massachusetts.”

Tony raises his eyebrows and takes the offered object carefully, fingers nudging Peter’s, lingering for just a moment before tugging the narrow tube out of his grasp. He spins it, observing the sleek design, red and blue. Peter clocks the exact moment he catches the tiny spiders etched up one side: he tenses, holds it closer, frowns. “You made this?”

Peter nods. “It’s more effective than a normal one, and safer.”

Mr. Stark shoots him a concerned look, a look that says, _what have you become? _For a second, Peter considers not clarifying, letting the man that used to be his mentor think he’s gotten lost in some college druggy phase, wasting his talents on more effective ways to get stoned. Maybe then he’d feel as confused and lost in Peter’s presence as Peter feels in his.

But the petulant impulse is drowned out by the desire to please, to prove that he’s worth attention; a childish instinct that’s apparently so ingrained several years of Mr. Stark being dead did nothing to erase it.

“It helps with my senses,” he explains. “When things get too overwhelming.” 

“Ah.” Mr. Stark considers the vape for another moment, then shrugs and takes a hit. Peter watches his chest rise, stay risen, then finally sink back as he exhales. It’s a small thing, but comfortingly real. Normal, even. “Smooth. You should patent this; you could make some money.”

Peter feels his face flush at the praise, and can’t quite believe that’s still his reaction. “Not really my brand,” he mumbles.

Mr. Stark accepts this with a tilt of his head. He takes another hit before passing the vape back. “Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing in the great city of Boston?”

“I don’t need to ask.” As if Peter hadn’t seen the signs up around campus, or gotten the million emails about it. MIT’s most illustrious alum, back from the dead thanks to actual real life magic, here to talk reconciling the scientific mindset with the brave new world they live in. A coup: his first extended public appearance. Yeah, the school wasn’t letting anyone miss that. “You gave a talk.”

“So you did know about it.” Peter keeps his eyes trained on the craggily bushes in the yard, but he can still feel the heat of Mr. Stark’s gaze on his face. “Kind of expected you to show up, kid.”

Peter takes another hit. His hand is trembling. “Kind of expected you to tell me about it.” Mr. Stark makes a small, hurt sound, a pained little exhale. Peter refuses to look over. “Why didn’t you?”

He fights the urge to add more questions. Like: _Why haven’t you called? Why did I only see you once over spring break? Why have you refused to be alone with me?_

Like: _Is it because you’re disappointed in me?_

“Pete, I—can you look at me?”

_No_, he wants to say, but he does. Of course he does. Mr. Stark looks vulnerable. Not just his expression—though that, definitely, openly longing in a way Peter has never seen before—but his body. His suit is a little too big, as if he’s lost weight since whenever it was made. There are dark smudges under his eyes; his skin is dry, lips chapped. He’s Tony fucking Stark, so there’s no world in which he looks _bad_, but he definitely doesn’t look healthy.

Peter wonders if that’s how he looks to Tony. The bags under the eyes are certainly familiar from his own reflection. “Okay, I’m looking. What?”

He doesn’t mean to be so aggressive, doesn’t mean to make Mr. Stark flinch like that, but it is a little satisfying.

“I haven’t handled this well,” Mr. Stark says. His tone is steady, deliberately so. Fake calm. Peter recognizes that, too. “Not just you, any of it. I mean—god, Pete, I missed three and a half years of Morgan’s life. She was scared the first time she saw me. And Pep—” A muscle in his jaw twitches; he must be grinding his teeth together. Peter had forgotten he does that. “I have not historically been great at dealing with major life changes, and it turns out my little trip to the afterlife didn’t make me any better at it.”

Peter can’t help a quizzical jerk of his head at the word _afterlife_. Mr. Stark hasn’t said very much about what he’d experienced when he died. Peter can remember the feeling of drifting apart himself, still wakes screaming with the pain of it. But after dissolving there had been nothing: no time, no feeling, just nothing, until suddenly he was back on that hot, dry planet.

“I didn’t mean that literally,” Mr. Stark chides, picking up on the question. “Jesus, kid, you think I wouldn’t have mentioned the reality shattering revelation of an actual afterlife? Point is, I’ve been a disaster.”

“Oh.” Peter doesn’t think that really explains why Mr. Stark’s been avoiding him, but maybe it’s as simple as he hasn’t been ready to see the people outside his inner circle. That would make sense. It stings, but it was silly of Peter to think he would make the cut. Just because he’d come back to life with Mr. Stark’s name on his lips doesn’t mean the opposite is close to true. “Fine, I get it.”

“Judging by your tone, I don’t think you do.” Mr. Stark sighs, running his hand along the chair’s arms. An anxious tick, or maybe simply the drugs kicking in. For Peter, they mostly just dull his senses, make the world a little less angular to the touch, but they’re strong.

God, he’s getting high with Mr. Stark, and he’s not even happy about it. Tell his fifteen-year-old self that, and there wouldn’t be a single word in the sentence that would’ve seemed plausible. “Then explain it, Mr. Stark. Because you’re right, maybe I don’t get it. I mean, I know I’m not the most important person in your life, but I thought—you left me EDITH…”

Mr. Stark gives him a sharp look, searching. “Of course you’re important to me, Pete. That’s the whole point. I heard what happened, and I just…” He trails off, then holds out his hand and makes an impatient grabbing gesture.

Peter hands over the vape, and almost winces when Mr. Stark definitely lets his touch linger, fingertips pressing against fingertips. “So you _are _disappointed in me.” He doesn’t let it be a question. Fine. He can face that. It makes him want to crawl into his bed and never come out, but he can face it.

“What? No, of course not. Kid, is that really what you think?” Peter shrugs, and Mr. Stark looks stricken. “Fuck. Wow. I really—I fucked this up.”

Peter doesn’t have anything to say to that. He looks down into his lap, notices a hole forming at the knee of his jeans. He picks at it, catching a thread and pulling. Great. He’s going to need to patch that up. He can hear Mr. Stark sucking on the vape again, the sharp tug of his inhale, a light cough.

“When I was lying on that field, dying, I looked around, and I thought about the people I was leaving behind,” he finally continues. “Rhodey? He was set, he was good. He was always the one bailing _me_ out of trouble, I was basically making his life easier by vacating the premises. Pep? She never needed me. I like to think I added a certain level of spontaneity and excitement to her life. We had something, we really did, and it was good. Great, even, when things were going well, but Pepper Potts was going to be just fine without me. And Morgan would be just fine because she had Pepper.”

He stops, drumming his fingers against his chair; the sound is loud, almost echoing, senses not as dull as Peter wants them. He doesn’t reach for the vape though, doesn’t want their fingers touching again.

“And then there was you,” Mr. Stark continues, and Peter’s heart skips a beat, even though he knew it was coming. “I knew you were amazing, but I wondered if I’d done enough. To prepare you. To protect you. And look what happened.”

Yeah, look what happened. It took Peter less than a year to fuck up so bad he’s never quite recovered. Blow the mission, blow his cover, blow up his life. He pulls at the hole in his jeans again.

“Pete, don’t make that face. You were great. You did as well as anyone could. _I’m _the one who left you with my enemies to clean up. That was my legacy for you: a target on your back. And I didn’t even realize.” Another sigh, and Mr. Stark slides deeper into the chair, extending his legs out as he slumps. “I wasn’t ready to face that. Face you.”

“Yeah?” Peter risks a glance over, sees Mr. Stark is now staring into his own lap, fingers twisting around the vape. “What changed?”

“When I got to that talk and you weren’t there, I realized I wanted to see you a lot more than I didn’t want to see you.”

“Oh.” A light breeze picks up, rippling through the leaves of the neighbor’s tree. Peter shivers; he wishes he had a sweatshirt. “What if _I_ don’t want to see _you_? Did that even occur to you?”

That gets Mr. Stark to look at him again, frowning. “Honestly, no. Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” The word is out of his mouth before he’s able to process it, firm and maybe a little desperate. He doesn’t want him to leave. All he’s wanted for the last four months is to see him.

It’s all he’s wanted for years.

“Then what’s with the attitude, kid? I’m sorry I didn’t reach out sooner, if that’s it. I really am. Let me make it up to you?”

“It’s not that. I mean, it _is _but it’s also—” It’s also that he sees Mr. Stark and remembers a burn running up his arm and across his face. Remembers dreams and nightmares and hopes and fantasies and _fuck_. “I don’t know how to do this,” he concludes weakly. “I’m sorry.”

The statement hangs in the air between them, and for a moment the world seems to pause. Then the breeze tickles across Peter’s face and he shivers again. It ruffles through Mr. Stark’s hair, too, and that seems to snap him to life. Suddenly he leaps to his feet, slapping his thighs as he declares, “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m cold and hungry. Want to order a pizza?”

Peter doesn’t take the hand Mr. Stark extends, but he does return his smile.

***

They order from OTTO’s on Peter’s insistence: two large mashed potato pizzas. Mr. Stark looks at him like he’s gone insane, but Peter insists, “It’s the _best _when you’re high.”

“Do I need to worry about you?” Mr. Stark asks as he settles into the beat-up grey couch that fills half the small living room.

Peter is suddenly self-conscious about the space. He likes to think he’s done a decent job making it presentable—he framed his posters and everything—but now its shabbiness stands out: the nicks in the wood floor, the stains on window ledges that haven’t been repainted in years. There’s an empty bowl with a few cheerios still sticking to the bottom sitting out on the IKEA coffee table. He grabs that and takes it to the adjoining kitchen, tossing it in the sink as he asks, “Why would you need to worry about me?”

“I just never imagined you’d be the kind of person who had a preferred high food. Honestly, I didn’t even think you’d get to the drunk food phase.”

“I hate drinking, actually,” Peter reports as he returns to the living room. He has to make a quick decision: armchair, or couch, next to Mr. Stark? He picks the couch, but presses himself into the corner, leaving almost an entire body’s worth of space between them. “Feeling out of control is scary. I’m always worried I’ll lose track of my strength.”

“But this is okay?” Mr. Stark asks skeptically, waving the vape.

“Are you seriously giving me a D.A.R.E. lecture right now?”

“No. I don’t care what you do for fun. Lord knows I can’t judge.” He brings the vape to his lips, pulling on it pointedly, and, damn. That’s a thing _Peter _made, and Mr. Stark has his lips wrapped around it. The thought settles low in his gut; he shifts against the tightening of his pants. “I’m trying to ask if you’re okay.”

“I told you, it’s just for my senses,” Peter insists. And yeah, okay, maybe it’s also a bit to make his brain shut up, when it wants to remind him of all his failures, of Beck and the fact that half the world still thinks he’s a monster even after footage from the drones cleared his name, legally. When he gets sick of the whispers in class, the people looking at him in horror or awe. But Mr. Stark doesn’t need to know that.

Or maybe he does, because currently he has Peter captured in a steady gaze, studying him. He feels pinned, like one of those butterflies in the bio lab, stuck to the couch for examination. Goosebumps scatter down his arms.

“I’m really fine, Mr. Stark,” he adds, but his throat has gone dry. He should’ve brought water over. “Things are great.”

Mr. Stark raises his eyebrows, tilting his head a little, and for a moment Peter is fifteen again, getting silently called out for a bad excuse for being late to lab. He can feel the heat rising on his face, the afterimage of long-forgotten shame combined with the very real, very present experience of having those eyes focused solely on him. He ducks his head shyly.

“Sure,” Mr. Stark says after a moment, and in a single word he manages to convey that he believes Peter exactly zero percent. But he turns to the flat screen TV that dominates the room—a high school graduation gift from Happy, nicer than anything else in the apartment. “Okay, Cheech, I’m feeling the buzz, and I’m a bit behind on my pop culture. Hit me with your favorite comedy from the last few years.”

Which is how they end up watching _23 Jump Street_, occasionally passing the vape, fingers continuing to bump each time it exchanges hands. Peter can’t tell if it’s just because he’s high enough that seconds are distorted, but it feels like Mr. Stark’s touch lingers longer each time, sending pleasure crawling up his arm and down his back. By the time the pizza arrives, he’s floating on a buzz of drug high and arousal, barely able to concentrate enough to balance the large boxes in his hands on the way back from the front door.

Rather than do anything useful in Peter’s absence, let get plates or water, Mr. Stark has sprawled, spreading across the couch. He gestures greedily at the pizza.

“You don’t have a buzzer here?” he asks as Peter sets the boxes down before retreating to the kitchen because _he_, at least, is very thirsty. “You have to walk all the way downstairs anytime you have delivery?” He sounds honestly baffled by the idea.

“Yeah, two whole flights.” Peter returns with water, placing a glass in front of Mr. Stark before grabbing a slice and taking his seat. This time, he doesn’t scrunch quite so far into the corner. “It’s a real struggle. You’ve discovered the source of all my problems.”

“So you _do _have problems,” Mr. Stark accuses, making a stabbing gesture at Peter with his pizza. “I knew I’d get you to confess. You fell into my ingeniously laid trap.” 

Then he giggles, downright giggles, and the knot of worry that had momentarily sprung up in Peter’s chest loosens. At least Mr. Stark is too distractible to successfully pry right now.

“That wasn’t a trap,” Peter counters. “That was you honestly being shocked because you’ve literally never lived somewhere without a doorman.”

“True,” Mr. Stark admits. He takes a bite of his pizza, and lets out a moan that’s almost indecent. “You win, this is delicious.”

“Told you.”

They lapse into silence, turning the movie back on as they enjoy the food. Peter relaxes, slouching into the couch, letting his mind sink into the colors on the screen, only half following the plot. It’s a familiar scene in his life—probably too familiar, if he’s being honest—turned strange by the presence of the one person who has loomed in the background but never been there: an object of want, of longing, of regret, suddenly present and eating his favorite pizza and laughing a bit too loud at stupid jokes.

It really, really doesn’t feel real.

He doesn’t realize the panic is coming until it’s already on him, heart pounding loud in his ears, racing too fast, it can’t possibly be racing that fast—it’s _not_, probably, that’s probably in his head but it _feels _like it—and his hand won’t stop clutching, he’s tearing into the couch, he can’t breathe, he can’t—

It’s the touch that brings him back, Mr. Stark’s hands on his face, thumbs pressing uncomfortably into his jaw. Then his voice, distorted at first, submerged in water, not clicking into place, but tone gentle and calming, eventually drawing him back, until the flash subsides and Peter can make out of the form of the words: “You’re okay, it’s me, Pete, it’s Tony, you’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay.”

Mr. Stark is practically on top of him, knees pressing against knees, body close enough that Peter can feel the heat of it. It’s the closest he’s let someone get in—a while. Longer than he’s thought about. And it’s not _someone_, it’s Tony Stark. Somehow.

“Are you real?” he hears himself say, and even though he knows the answer, he _knows _the answer, he says it again, because he doesn’t believe it. “Are you really real?”

“Oh, kid.” The expression on Mr. Stark’s face has turned horror stricken, pale, like all the blood has been drained from him. His eyes are bright, shot with red. “Of course I am. What do you need me to say? What can I—um—I took your suit away after the ferry thing. I made you wear Hello Kitty pajamas. Uh, first thing I did when I saw you on that battlefield was hug you, because I couldn’t believe it. You were the most amazing thing I had ever seen, and I needed to feel you to be sure. Is that—fuck, Pete, what is it? What can I do?”

Peter realizes he’s shaking, on the verge of tears, or maybe collapse, mind working too slowly to keep up. _I needed to feel you to be sure_. Yeah. Yeah, that sounds right. He peels his hand from where it has ripped so far into the couch he’s touched springy foam, and brings it to Mr. Stark’s waist. Without thinking, he ducks beneath the edge of his shirt, formal button up untucked sometime around the pizza, laying his palm flat against the skin of his stomach. He’s warm, muscles flexing in time with a small gasp.

Peter looks up and is met with eyes that have gone wide. “Pete—”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Peter admits, but he doesn’t move his hand. He can feel Mr. Stark’s skin getting hotter where he’s touching it, can hear the way his heart beats, loud thumping that seems steady next to the skittering rhythm of Peter’s own pulse. “I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t.”

“Okaaay.” Mr. Stark draws it out, slow words made slower by Peter’s high. “Are we talking ‘don’t know what you’re doing’ as in too many drugs, I should take my hands off you because you’ve lost the thread, or is this more an existential doubt kind of situation?”

Peter takes a moment to actually contemplate that question. What is currently happening? Currently, Mr. Stark’s hands are on his face, cupping his chin. Currently, his hand is up Mr. Stark’s shirt, touching his skin. Currently, he’s hard as a rock, but what’s new?

He has the thread, he just has no idea how they got here, or what’s supposed to happen next. “Existential,” he says. “Please don’t take your hands off me. I mean, unless you want to.”

Mr. Stark does not move his hands. His eyes go soft. “Existential doubt I can work with,” he assures him, suddenly serious. “Talk me through it. What’s the problem?”

Peter’s eyes slip down to Mr. Stark’s lips. They look soft, shining with grease. For an impulsive moment, he almost leans forward to take them in his own. Instead, he forces himself to look up, trying to focus on the question.

“The problem,” he says slowly, “is I already said: I don’t know how to do this. You. Being here.”

He expects a response, but all he gets is a soft grunt and a nod, as if Mr. Stark wants him to continue. As if he has any idea what to say next, any idea what he’s trying to say at all. But he lets himself ramble, carried on the strength of skin to skin, of wanting to try.

Of want.

“The thing is, Mr. Stark, you weren’t. Right? Here. You weren’t here. And it was terrible, and everything was—it was bad. But I got used to it. I never stopped, um, I never stopped missing you”—_loving you_, he almost says, but he’s not out of it enough for _that_—“but I…I lived my life. I did what I had to…but then you were _back_, but you weren’t? Not to me? And now you’re here and I just, I don’t know how. I don’t know how to make you fit.”

Doesn’t know how to forget mourning him. Or how to erase years of letting his mind wander down paths it shouldn’t have, because who did it hurt—other than himself, and he was more than fine with that—to imagine things that could never happen? There was no relationship left to be ruined by giving into longing, that had been his logic. Except now there is, and Peter can’t take it back. Can’t shove it down and rewind to how things had been. Doesn’t want to.

He realizes he’s been silent for a while, but maybe that’s okay. Mr. Stark hasn’t said anything either, breathing steadily, stomach expanding and collapsing under Peter’s hand.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks. He’s starting to feel like he should move his hand, but he’s not sure where. Away, but he doesn’t want to, and any other option seems like it will draw too much attention to itself. “Are you going to say something?”

“I’m thinking,” Mr. Stark replies. 

Man, he must really be high, because he never takes this long to think of what to say.

“Think out loud?” Peter suggests. His mouth is sticky, but he refuses to reach for the water. He can’t believe those hands are still spread across his face, so warm it feels like burning.

“I can do that.” Mr. Stark leans in, until their noses are almost touching. Almost, but not quite. “If it makes you feel any better, kid, I don’t know how _anything_ fits in my life. Or maybe it’s me that doesn’t fit anywhere. Same difference. But…” He licks his lips. Slowly. Deliberately. “This feels like something, right?”

Those hands sweep down Peter’s face, leaving a trail of tingling skin. Fingers curl firmly around the back of his head. Peter doesn’t have time to register he movement or brace himself for what’s coming before Mr. Stark’s lips catch his. He tastes like bacon and chives and feels like silk, and Peter finds himself melting into it. Into not just the kiss but Mr. Stark’s arms, falling forward, guided on top of him, messy tangle of limbs and sighs.

This can’t actually be happening. Is this actually happening?

The kiss breaks as they try to adjust to the new position, elbows knocking into sides, uncoordinated, and Peter takes the chance to say, “_What_?”

“What what?” Mr. Stark shifts below him, hands coming to his back, pulling him down until their bodies press together, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, dicks unmistakably hard.

It’s hard to breathe. Again. Of course it is. If having Mr. Stark here, in his apartment, eating pizza and watching movies, didn’t fit, then this isn’t even the same universe. This is fantasies coming true, and Peter’s fantasies don’t come true. He’s not someone who gets what he wants. He’s learned that by now.

“Kid?” Mr. Stark sounds concerned.

Peter can’t look at his face, lips slick with spit, eyes wide, too wide, pupils dilated, raw with emotion. He focuses on the pillow behind him, instead. There’s a stain, he should wash it.

“Pete? Hello? _What _what?”

“What are you doing?” It’s not really the question, but maybe it’s in the right general direction. Peter has no idea how to say what he really means: _I’m lost. Are you finding me?_

“Honestly? I’m not really sure.” Those hands are under his shirt now, fingers tracing up his spine, long waves of want pulsing out from the touch. “Seeing if this fits, I guess.”

Peter’s body screams at his mind to shut up, shut off, let those fingers guide him down and away and stop asking questions. Take what he’s being offered, for whatever reason. It’s surreal, sure, but is it really more surreal than Iron Man on his balcony, Mr. Stark stoned on his couch, alive and in Boston? Just let it be. But his mouth won’t listen. “And if it doesn’t?”

“If it doesn’t, we forget it ever happened.” As if. As if he could forget those fingers. Those damn fingers, moving lower, inching below the edge of his pants, sliding under his boxers, chasing away thought. He bites back a moan, which just leads to a strange strangled sound, a half-gasp with a squeaky edge. It can’t possibly be sexy, but Mr. Stark rolls his hips, dick thrusting against Peter’s thigh. “But Pete, I kind of feel like it does. Don’t you?”

It takes Peter a second to remember what they’re talking about. Oh right, fitting. Yeah, this feels like it fits, and also doesn’t at the same time, so impossible it might as well be a dream.

“Maybe,” he whispers, which doesn’t really capture what he’s trying to say, but Mr. Stark kisses him again anyway.

Peter gives in this time. He’s tired of thinking, so he doesn’t. He lets Mr. Stark take over. Guide him. Guide him back into a kiss, and then, hand gripping the back of his head, guide him down, shoving Peter’s lips to his neck. Peter experimentally sucks and earns a groan, another thrust of Mr. Stark’s hips. And wow, he loves that, could nip and lick and suck forever if it means hearing that sound.

And then those fingers—those _fingers_—are tugging at his shirt, trying to get it off. And maybe, maybe this is the moment he should say something. Something like: _Mr. Stark, I’ve never_.

Like: _Mr. Stark, I almost, but then I lost her when my life blew up. _Or:_ Mr. Stark, I haven’t, because who can I trust? _

What he actually says is, “You know I’m more than Spider-Man. Right? You do, you know me.”

Mr. Stark stops yanking at the shirt long enough to give him a confused look. “I assume that made sense in your head?”

“Kinda?” Peter takes the shirt off himself. Once it’s over his head and on the floor, Mr. Stark lets out a low whistle. An actual whistle. It’s so cheesy, Peter wants to hug it. It’s stupid and safe and so totally Mr. Stark and he’s _here_, he’s undressing Peter, he _wants _him, at least for now, at least in this moment. He wishes he could capture it in one of those snow globes, forever perfect. “I’m sorry I’m being weird.”

“It’s fine.” Mr. Stark draws him down to his chest, arms folding around him and, okay, that’s even safer. Even better. “I do know you’re more than Spider-Man. You’re Peter Parker. Who is Spider-Man, but is also the guy who likes movies and chemistry and, last I checked, laughs at all my jokes, even the stupid ones.” He kisses Peter’s hair. “Is this too much? Do you want to stop?”

Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t want to stop. He definitely doesn’t want to stop.

But maybe he should say first: _If you leave me again, I’ll never forgive you. _And then: _That’s a lie, I’ll forgive you, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to pick up the pieces. _

And, most accurately: _No, I will. I’ll pick up the pieces. But please don’t make me. Please don’t make me do that again_.

Instead, he sits up. “Keep going, but fair’s fair. Shirt, off.”

Mr. Stark hesitates, a beat, another beat, before nodding. He takes a deep breath and then, in one fluid motion, pulls his shirt off, revealing a wide chest, firm stomach, a scattering of scars. Running from his right shoulder to the center of his chest is the newest, the badge of everything he sacrificed: a wide line painted in the smooth pink of new flesh, blooming tendrils that blend with the faded white of what must be where the arc reactor used to sit.

“You’re the first person to see it,” Mr. Stark says quietly. “Other than the doctors. And Doctor Strange, unfortunately. If it were up to him I’m pretty sure I’d still be in that sanctum being poked and prodded. Their greatest accomplishment, unwinding death itself, and I didn’t even have the decency to stick around and be studied. I get it, I’d be annoyed at me, too.” He stops, swallows, and for an instant, looks nervous. Actually nervous. Tony Stark. _Nervous._ “Can I get a reaction here, kid?”

Peter doesn’t have words for what he feels. Awe: at the reminder of what Mr. Stark did, at being allowed to witness it. Want, obviously, but also a need to touch that goes beyond lust. Confirmation, reminder: he’s actually here. He wasn’t, and now he is, and that’s not getting ripped away again.

Instead of words, Peter tries to say it in movement. In kissing where the scar starts, just below the collar bone. In his tongue working over the raised skin, lips pressing pecks down Mr. Stark’s chest, to his heart. When he looks back up, Mr. Stark’s eyes are wet with tears. Peter doesn’t have a lot of experience with these things—okay, none, no experience at all—but he’s pretty sure that would normally be a bad thing.

He’s also pretty sure that right now it’s not.

“Mr. Stark?”

Mr. Stark responds by hauling him up, kissing him with a fierceness that wasn’t there before, fingers twisting into his hair, sending sparks through his body, emotions turning into want turning into need, turning into Mr. Stark’s voice gone rough, beard brushing against his ear. “I want to be inside you. Peter, can I, Peter, please—”

Peter nods, and, without even needing to get up, manages to fish a bottle of lube out from under the couch with his toes. He holds it up with a small, embarrassed smile, and is met with an arched eyebrow.

“Should I be jealous, Mr. Parker?” Mr. Stark asks, taking it. A joke, but maybe a little not, and that makes something inside Peter glow.

He gestures at the TV. “I live alone. It’s better than a computer.”

It takes Mr. Stark a second, but when he gets it, he laughs, delighted. “Pot, porn…look what you’ve become without my good influence.”

“Yeah, total degenerate,” Peter agrees. “So you better not leave me alone again.”

Mr. Stark raises his eyes from the bottle to fix them on Peter. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

And wow, suddenly Peter does not care that this is already so much further than he’s ever been. He doesn’t care that he has no idea what he’s doing and is probably going to make an idiot of himself. He doesn’t care about anything but getting Mr. Stark inside him, and hearing those words again and again.

He’s wobbly when he gets to his feet to pull his pants off. Nearly falls over when Mr. Stark does the same, shucking his briefs with his dress pants that probably cost more than most of Peter’s furniture, cock suddenly just there, sticking out from a patch of dark curls—thick, hard, already slick with precome. Peter feels shy as he pulls his own boxers down, unsure. Naked in front of someone for the first time.

The way Mr. Stark looks at him though. That doesn’t make him feel shy at all. It makes him heady with being wanted.

“Are you sure you’re real?” he asks, and it’s only most of the way a joke. “Because this feels like a dream.”

“You’re the dream,” Mr. Stark replies, closing the space between them, kissing him deeply. “Has no one told you that?”

“Um, yeah, no, not really.” Peter can feel himself blush. Mr. Stark is surprisingly cheesy. Peter, less surprisingly, loves it.

He also loves it when Mr. Stark stops to kiss him on the nose. Can hardly stand how protected it makes him feel, cock bobbing, toes curling. “Well, whoever you’ve been sleeping with are idiots.”

“No. I mean…” Peter glances down. Maybe he shouldn’t say, maybe he’s about to ruin everything. But lying doesn’t feel right. “I haven’t.”

Peter counts the beats of his heart while he waits for a response.

One. Two. Three. Four.

“Hell of a time to tell me, Pete,” Mr. Stark says. But he doesn’t sound upset.

Peter raises his eyes, and is met with a gentle smile. Okay. It’s okay.

“I told you I don’t know what I’m doing,” he points out, dropping back onto the couch, stretching out. He reaches up, welcoming. “But I think we’re doing a decent job figuring it out together.”

Mr. Stark seems to be fighting with himself, face dancing through too many expressions to keep track of before he sighs and says, “Do you even have condoms?”

“Do we need them?”

Mr. Stark considers this, then shrugs and lowers himself to the couch, forcing Peter to scrunch his legs up to make room. He uncaps the lube and covers the fingers of his right hand, left drifting to Peter’s thigh, stroking gently.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes meeting Peter’s, dark and caring. Like he wants to consume him, but is waiting for permission.

Peter laughs. It’s an absurd question. He’s not even one hundred percent sure he’s not hallucinating this whole thing. “Mr. Stark, I haven’t been sure of anything since an alien maniac turned me to dust. But I want it. I want _you_. Is that good enough?”

Mr. Stark’s eyes narrow; Peter can practically see him thinking, turning his words over, deciding. Finally, to Peter’s relief, he grins. “Your dirty talk needs work.”

And then he pushes a finger in, and Peter loses track of reality. His eyes close involuntarily, body rocked by the sensation. Not pleasurable, exactly, but intimate. His cock bounces on his stomach, spurting precome. Mr. Stark’s left hand keeps stroking those comforting circles as his right finger moves, thrusts, curves, hits a spot that makes Peter cry out in a rush of ecstasy.

“That’s it,” Mr. Stark murmurs, adding a second finger, almost too much, but it’s more of him, and so it’s exactly right. “Good work.”

Peter moans, cock jumping, curving into the touch, into the pride the blooms in his chest. He should probably be worried about how hot hearing praise—praise from _Mr. Stark_—makes him, but in this moment all his mind has room for is preening.

“More,” he begs, and with a chuckle, Mr. Stark obliges, thrusting faster, scissoring his fingers, pushing Peter until he’s arched half off the couch, whimpering, one arm flung over his face, the other clinging helplessly to a pillow—

And then the fingers are gone, and Peter whines, almost protests until he realizes Mr. Stark is lining himself up. He leans over, kissing Peter’s forehead, one hand cupping his jaw. “Eyes open, please.”

Peter obeys without question, and then almost comes right there, untouched, when he sees Mr. Stark, eyes wet, cheeks flushed.

“Hi,” Peter whispers, and he hopes it expresses even a fraction of what he’s feeling.

“Hi,” Mr. Stark answers, pressing forward, entering him. He’s wide, wider than his fingers. Peter can feel the drag of it to his core, vibrating out to his toes, to every inch of his skin, until he’s panting with a need he can’t name. “You okay, kid?”

“Very.” It’s not enough, doesn’t convey the way his body sings as Mr. Stark begins to move in long slow strokes. His gaze, never leaving Peter’s face, makes him flush and giggle. “I’m better than okay.”

What he doesn’t say: _This is the happiest I’ve been in years_. He can’t.

Mr. Stark smiles, and it’s the most beautiful thing Peter has ever seen. Yeah, that’s a cliché thing to think, but he doesn’t care, it’s true. “Me, too, kid. Way better than okay.”

And then he’s moving, faster, though not by much. Not the hard possessive pounding Peter had often imagined, one hand around his dick, the other muffling moans so May wouldn’t hear. There’s no teeth here, no claiming hands scratching ownership down his back. Maybe he can ask for that later, another time, again, if this isn’t a dream.

For now, there’s this: one person in another, eyes that never leave his face, a smile he can’t look straight at, too bright, like the sun. The heat of flesh on flesh, and the promise in that: we’re here, here, alive, together. It’s more than enough.

“I missed you,” Peter whispers, a confession. “Please don’t make me miss you again.”

Mr. Stark stops moving, closes his eyes, looking strained. His hand clutches Peter’s hair. “Fuck, kid, you’re going to make me come.”

Maybe that’s its own kind of confession. The thought of it goes straight to Peter’s dick. He twitches and arches, only now bothering to check in on his body to feel how close he is himself. But he is, close, really close, like any sudden movement could set him off. He wraps his legs around Mr. Stark’s back, making an awkward attempt to thrust onto him. It doesn’t really work, but it must get his point across because Mr. Stark starts moving again, rocking into him, lips finding his.

Between the kisses, he whispers, “I won’t, I’m not going anywhere, I’m here, Peter, I’m here.”

Peter tries to respond but can’t make words. Only manages to gasp out, barely audible, “_Mr. Stark_.”

There’s no warning before Mr. Stark comes. Just a deep groan, a stutter to his thrusts, and then something hot fills Peter. The shock of it pushes him over the edge, too, dick throbbing as he orgasms, streaking the space between them, making a mess.

Should he apologize? Do you apologize for getting come on your partner?

Before he can figure it out, Mr. Stark is kissing him again, and he lets it go, lets himself drift away into the afterglow.

***

At some point, Mr. Stark roles them onto their sides, wedging himself between the couch and Peter. The position puts them face-to-face, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and heavy breathing. Mr. Stark scatters kisses down Peter’s collarbone.

“So,” he murmurs into Peter’s neck, taking his hand. “What do you think? Fit? I feel like this fits.”

“I have no idea,” Peter says, mirroring Mr. Stark, nuzzling into his shoulder. He’s dizzy, a little with the drugs and a lot with what just happened. He feels like he’s floating. “But it’s a lot better than being mad at you.”

He can feel Mr. Stark’s smile, and then gets to see it when he draws back. It’s still beautiful, even outside the haze of sex. Obviously. “If I stay, will that help you figure it out?”

“What do you mean, stay?” Peter asks. His mind is not ready for a conversation yet, still too caught up in the afterglow to think. “Like, here? Yes, please stay here tonight.”

“Actually, I meant Boston,” Mr. Stark says. His tongue traces his lips, slow and tempting, before he expands on the thought. “Is that crazy? It might be crazy. I’m just spitballing here. I’d go back to New York for Morgan, of course, our weekends and all her little plays and stuff, but with my suit that’s an easy commute. Otherwise there’s really nothing tying me there. SI has labs up here. Heck, maybe MIT needs a guest lecturer. I’d get my own place, obviously, I’m not _insane_, but…I don’t know, Pete. Maybe a fresh start is a good idea. Could be what I need.”

When he looks at Peter, there’s anticipation in his eyes. Fear. As if he’s waiting for rejection.

“Is that too much?” he adds.

Peter is starting to feel ridiculous for the amount of times he’s had to say this today, but it’s true, more true now than any other time: “I don’t know. I have no idea.”

Mr. Stark swallows, and nods, smile faltering, though he clearly does his best to hide it. “Right. Yeah, of course it is. It’s way too much. Ignore me. Can I blame it on the drugs? I’m going to blame it on the drugs.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter cuts in, “I didn’t say no.” And then, remembering how safe it had made him feel, he kisses his nose, letting his lips wrap around the tip. It feels a little silly from this end, but Mr. Stark sighs in a way that makes Peter think it’s working. “How about we start with you staying over tonight and go from there?”

“When did you become the sensible one?” Mr. Stark complains, but his smile is back, full, no falter. “That sounds like a good plan. One condition: we order more of that ridiculous pizza.”

It’s small, it’s nothing, it’s probably just his way of trying to lighten the mood, but as Peter laughs and kisses him, he can suddenly see the weeks ahead: introducing Mr. Stark to all his favorite Cambridge restaurants, the lab where he does his internship, the coffee shops he likes to study in. He can see Mr. Stark with him there, hands linked, sharing smiles. 

And yeah, actually, yeah. Maybe it does fit after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Re-dated because it was for an exchange and now authors are revealed. Sorry if you have seen it already.
> 
> As always, feedback is very loved and appreciated <3


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